


Just Relax

by Taybay14



Series: Saving people, writing prompts [41]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bi-awakening, Dean Winchester in Denial, Flirting, Gay Panic, Gay-awakening, Groping, Just relax, M/M, Sexual Tension, TSA Employee Castiel (Supernatural), Unresolved Sexual Tension, airport security
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taybay14/pseuds/Taybay14
Summary: I mentioned a while back on tumblr that the TSA video Misha did - "Just Relax" - was totally Destiel, and a lot of people wanted me to write something for it. Hopefully this tickles your fancy (;
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Saving people, writing prompts [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/453034
Comments: 18
Kudos: 118





	Just Relax

**Author's Note:**

> here's the video if you haven't seen it :
> 
> TSA "Just Relax"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxDzSnthx-Y&feature=youtu.be

“So, did you know that the higher altitude you’re at, the quicker you get hammered? I mean, planes fly at like 280,000 feet, right, so I mean, I am _flying_ ,” Dean says to the hot blonde in line beside him. He’s aware that he’s slightly rambly right now, but he can’t help it. He always gets like this when he’s drunk, and he hates flying, so he’s pretty damn drunk. “And then the stewardess gave me like a three drink coupon, god how sweet is that? I feel like I’m in the bourbon and coke mileage club. Did you know it’s only the second time-”

“Ticket and ID please,” he hears from far away. 

Dean just keeps talking. “-I’ve ever been on a plane, and the airline is buying _me_ drinks. 

“Ticket and ID please,” he hears again, this time in a loud, impatient voice. 

Dean’s eyes fall on the shorter woman behind the podium as he hands her his ticket and ID, still talking to the blonde woman. “Where you goin’ to?” He looks over at her ticket and reads her destination. “Lauderdale? Me too!”

“Sir-” someone says. 

Dean continues. “Ya know what, maybe we should sit together!” 

“Sir-” he hears again, much louder. He looks back at the woman working the stand, pausing his conversation. She’s scowling at him, clearly unimpressed. “Sir, you are not going anywhere unless you pay attention!” she scolds. 

“Oh, sorry!” 

“Where are you from?” she asks as she inspects his ID with a flashlight. 

“K-Kansas?”

She looks closer at the ID. Then at him. Then the ID. Then she hands the documents back to him.

“Thank you,” Dean says quietly, finding the woman alarmingly intimidating. 

She just glares and informs him, “You have small hands. Like a little boy.”

_Ouch_. First Dean’s drunkenly rambling to a chick who he’s pretty sure doesn’t have any interest in him, and now this lady is poking holes in his slightly fragile masculinity. Or hugely fragile masculinity, if he’s going to be honest, which he sometimes has a problem being when he drinks too much. 

Trying to shake off the awkward silence that has fallen over them, he looks at the woman he’s been chatting with and points towards the security area. “Um, I’ll see you on - on the other side, okay?”

He walks away, still grinning at her before looking forward finally. Another agent is holding up a water bottle, just a few feet to his right. She’s yelling for all to hear, “Folks, please, don’t let me have to say this again, No liquids, pull out your laptops, cell phones, pocket change, shoes, please.” 

She stops and looks at him. Her name tag says Missouri. Dean can’t help but think it’s more like Misery, with the way she’s glaring at him with pursed lips. 

Like an idiot, he says, “Uh, boots?”

Her expression turns into a classic Sam Winchester bitch-face. “Are you asking me if a boot is a shoe?”

“No.” Dean forces an awkward laugh. He lifts a leg and stumbles through removing his boots, putting them both on the conveyor belt. 

Then Missouri-Misery says, “Belt too.”

Dean looks down at his belt. “Uh, ma’am, I’m sorry, I’d rather not-”

“Fine,” she says sharply, cutting Dean off. Then she shouts off to the side. “Opt Ouuut! Male assist!” 

She moves away as Dean blinks at her. “W-what’s a male assist?”

Missouri-Misery just purses her lips and gestures impatiently to the side. 

A man wearing a black vest over his blue long sleeve TSA shirt comes forward. Dean can't help but think he looks like a douchebag, with his hands in medical gloves, his tie high and tight, and his hair perfectly gelled to the side. The man opens the belt blocking the walkway and says, "Sir, right this way, please." 

Dean walks through, and the man gestures at the footprints on the floor. “Place your feet on the yellow footprints."

Following the order, Dean puts his feet over the footprints and gives the man a _get on with it_ look. 

“Okay. I’m gonna give you a pat down. I’ll let you know where I’m going to touch you before I touch you and I’ll use the back of my hands for all sensitive areas,” the man explains, lifting his gloved hands to show Dean. His face is impassive. Bored. 

Douchebag for sure.

Dean frowns. “Sensitive areas?”

“Underarms, inner thighs, under your waistband, and I will need you to unbuckle your belt please,” he says, pointing to Dean's belt. 

“Woah. Nobody’s sticking their hands in my pants.”

_Especially not you,_ Dean adds in his mind. 

“Sir,” he says, his face softening just a bit. “I’ll have you on your way shortly.”

Dean's heart begins to race. “I’m not gettin’ felt up by a _dude_ in the middle of an airport.”

“Just calm down,” the man says over Dean's voice, putting a placating hand in between them. 

“Okay?” Dean finishes, still wound up. 

“Sir, this is gonna save a lot of time.”

Dean just crosses his arms and purses his lips, looking the man up and down as if sizing him up for a fight. And he would. He'll fight him. 

The man rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, tongue running over his bottom teeth. Then he looks off to the side and yells, “Okay, private pat down!” before walking away and saying to Dean, “Follow me.”

Dean gives the blonde woman from earlier a look. She's getting her hair checked for who knows what. He puts his arms out and mouths, “What the fuck?” She just shrugs. 

Dean grabs his cowboy boots before following the douchebag to a door that has SECURE AREA in big red letters painted on it. Douchebag makes a come here motion with his hand and holds the door open for Dean. “Have a seat.” He shuts the door without following Dean inside, leaving Dean to himself in the room. 

Dean walks around the room in slight-shock, taking it in. The lighting is fluorescent, giving him a mild headache. Chairs are stacked in the corner. There’s a desk off to the side. A giant calendar is on one wall. There’s a random padded green chair in the center of the room. There’s an audio recording playing from speakers, giving instructions about safety and procedures. 

Dean takes a seat in the green chair slowly, looking around like a bomb might go off. He puts his boots on the floor beside his feet, then sits up straight.

_Where did the douchebag go? Is Dean in trouble? Is someone going to come yell at him? Is douchebag going to return?_

Dean wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs and adjusts in his seat. Anxiety is eating away at him, his buzz from the alcohol on the plane quickly fading. 

The audio recording begins talking about private pat down procedures. Then the room goes suddenly dark. Pitch black. A door opens, light spilling in to reveal a man. Dean squints at his silhouette before the man closes the door, shrouding the room in darkness once again.

When the man flicks the lights on again, they’re soft, a warm flickering glow like candles. Music plays quietly in the background. The kind you’d hear at a nice restaurant when out on a date. 

“The temperature okay with you?” the man - who is the douchebag from earlier - asks as he pulls down a picture of a nice painting to cover a poster about procedures. 

Dumbfounded, Dean just says, “Yeah."

“It’s a little chilly,” the douchebag says - or asks, considering the way his voice lilts. 

“It’s okay,” Dean promises, just now noticing that the douchebag has taken his black vest off. His tie is removed and the first two buttons on his collared shirt are undone, revealing a tanned chest. His hair is slightly mussed now. 

He looks like an entirely new person. 

Not a douchebag. 

More… really fucking sexy. 

_Get ahold of yourself, Winchester. Men are_ not _sexy, remember? 26 years we've managed to keep it that way. This TSA asshole ain't gonna ruin it._

The man strolls casually to the desk before pointing at Dean and giving him a sexy smirk. _Shit. Not sexy. Not sexy, Dean._ “Let me guess. You are - a bourbon and coke man?” 

Dean side eyes him before cautiously saying, “Sure.” 

The man grins. “I knew it.” He does something with the desk and the boring TSA sticker on the wall is covered by a lid lifting to reveal a purple backlit minibar. 

“So,” the man begins conversationally as he makes Dean’s drink. “You travel alone?”

Dean looks around the room again, positive there must be some sort of hidden camera TV show going on here. “Yeah.”

“Where ya heading?”

Dean looks back at him in confusion. “Lauderdale.” Then he takes a breath and shifts in his chair. “What has this got to do with security?” 

“Lauderdale,” the man says with a breathy laugh, cutting the end of Dean's sentence off. He looks towards the ceiling fondly. “I haven’t been to Lauderdale since I was,” he pauses, lifting his eyebrows and shaking his head before looking down at Dean’s drink. “Must’a been 16.”

Dean just watches him, still not understanding. 

“So, uh, this a work trip?” the man asks as he reaches for the cola can, eyes darting at Dean. 

“No?” He slips into a fake arrogance. “Add up chicks, booze, and sun. You do the math, amigo.”

The man hands him his drink before raising his hand to gently pat Dean’s shoulder. “I like those numbers,” he says softly as he takes a seat in a chair across from Dean. “Woah. Somebody works out,” he adds as he leans forward with his elbows on his thighs, smiling as his eyes roam Dean’s body. 

Dean puffs up a bit. “Yeah. Just ranch work,” he says with faked nonchalance. 

The man nods. “Yeah.”

“Mostly old school.”

“I can tell.”

“Yeah…”

The man’s eyes scan him again. “So, ranch. What does that mean? You got a big family back home?”

Dean half-smiles, hoping it doesn’t look too sad. “No. Just… little brother.”

“You two close growing up?”

Dean’s smile turns fond. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

The man’s eyes gaze into his, his plump lips softly smiling. “Yeah?”

“Ya had to be. Ya know, it was us versus him.”

The man’s eyebrows pull in. “What do you mean?” he asks, slowly standing up from his chair. He strolls over to the desk/mini-bar. 

“Pops.” Dean takes a sip of his drink before shaking his head. “That bastard.”

The man walks over with a mini-bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, pouring more into Dean’s glass. 

“He drank too much when we were kids,” Dean pauses as he watches the man dump the entire mini-bottle into his glass. “Woah.” He laughs awkwardly. 

“Oh man.” The man shakes his head. He puts the empty mini-bottle down and comes towards Dean. “Sounds rough.”

“Yeah. Ya know, he’d have his usual big night out with the bottle, and just come home swingin’,” he lifts his arm a little, seeing his father in his mind. Then gloved hands are landing on his shoulders. He startles, turning his head slightly. “Hey. Are we almost done here?”

“Yeah, yeah, almost.” The man squats down slightly. “Can I ask you, what cologne that is you’re wearing?”

Dean blinks up at him, caught completely off guard. “Uh… that ain’t cologne. No that’s the Axe Effect.”

“Oh yeah?” the man rumbles, his hands moving towards Dean’s bicep. He says softly, almost absentmindedly, “Just gonna get your arm right here,” before raising his voice and saying, “A lot of guys, they really go overboard, but that’s very subtle. It’s nice.” 

Something dangerous flutters in Dean's stomach. The man moves on to the other arm as Dean says, “Thank you.”

The man does his other arm before grabbing him in the armpits and pulling Dean to his feet like he weighs nothing. “Up you go.”

“Oh,” Dean grunts as he hurries to steady himself. He's slightly dizzy, either from the alcohol, or from the sexy dominance the man just exerted on his body. “Okay.”

“So,” the man continues, his hands beginning to move along Dean’s back. They’re warm through his flannel. He presses down along his spine, soothing Dean’s sore muscles. “That must have been scary for you and your little brother.”

“It was, yeah, but...” Dean looks at him. “But bruises heal, though, ya know.”

The man walks to his front, pushing the chair away to stand directly in front of Dean as Dean continues. 

“But, little Sammy-” 

The man squats down, cutting him off by softly informing him, “I’m gonna scan your legs now.”

Dean swallows hard, trying not to imagine that the man is going down on his knees for other reasons. “Okay.”

“Go on,” the man prompts, looking up at him from the ground. 

“Well, ya - ya know, hell if I was gonna let anythin’ happen to him,” he says, looking down at the man. 

The man is still staring up at him. He says under his breath, “Back of hands,” as he brings them up to Dean’s inner thighs. Dean hopes the man can't see that his cock is getting hard. He focuses on his father. It should be a safe topic. Safe as far as killing an erection, at least. 

“I-I just made sure that the old man was wore out by the time he got to him.”

“Wore out?” the man asks, standing back up. He’s frowning, eyebrows pulled in. His eyes are soft. Concerned. 

“Yeah. Wore out.”

“I’m gonna get your buttocks here,” the man breathes, pressing in close and wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist. Their chests press together, and Dean tries to pull away, but he’s encircled in the man’s strong arms, his hands touching Dean’s ass through his jeans. 

“O-Oh,” Dean says in surprise. _Think of growing up, Dean. Think of John._ “I - I - I took all the punches, ya - ya know, so he’s worn out by the time he got to Sammy.” 

The man slows his hands on Dean’s ass, cupping it as he looks up at Dean. His eyes go heavy-lidded as he stares at Dean in sadness. Not pity, though. Something _more._

“Ya - ya know, I don’t know how many times I went to bed busted up,” Dean admits, having no idea why he’s telling some stranger any of this. He’s never told _anyone_. Only Sammy knows. He speaks softly, suddenly feeling like he might cry. “But little Sammy, he was safe.”

“Well he was safe because of you,” the man says softly, tilting his head. His hands very gently work their way up Dean’s sides as he whispers, “So brave.”

Big blue eyes flick up to look into Dean’s eyes. “I’m gonna pat down your chest now.”

The way he says it, smooth and seductive, his eyes soft as he looks at Dean for permission, makes Dean feel like he’s saying something much dirtier. Like, _I'm gonna blow you now_ , or _I’m gonna bend you over and fuck you now_.

Both of which Dean would be So. On. Board. For. 

Dean goes a little breathless. “Okay…”

The man’s strong, gentle hands begin to press against his chest. Dean forces himself to continue speaking to keep his mind off of those damn hands. “He’s doin’ real good though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s a inventory stock and assistant-” he swallows, the man’s hands heading to his waist. “-manager in training at the Home Depot.” 

The man’s hands wrap around Dean's belt, his fingers slipping beneath the leather. His eyes search Dean’s face as he gives him a sexy half-smile. “You must be so proud.”

He tugs at Dean’s belt buckle, making it fall open. He grabs both ends and uses them to pull Dean in close. Dean goes easily, feeling like there’s a magnet pulling him into the man. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, staring at the man in awe. “He’s got a family of his own, too.”

The man stares him in the eyes. “I’m gonna put two fingers in your waistband.”

Dean just stares at him, unable to speak. He’d like two fingers somewhere else… 

The man continues, his voice dipping low. “I’ll move real slow.”

Dean takes in a shaky breath. “Okay.”

The man does as he said he would, fingers slipping beneath his waistband beginning at each hip, slowly moving towards his zipper. He swears the music is getting louder. The man’s eyes squint at him, his features softening. Dean starts to gravitate forward, his body out of control as it silently begs for a kiss. All he can do is blink. 

The man’s hands reach the front of his pants and tighten, pulling Dean in closer. 

With a breath, Dean tilts his head and begins to move forward, his eyes darting to the man’s lips. The man just watches him with that same soft, open expression. Dean’s eyes flutter closed as he leans closer. _Just once. One time. Just to know for sure that men aren't what you want. Then never again, Dean._

Then, just before their lips meet, the man yells obnoxiously, “All clear!” right in his face. Dean stumbles back, shock swallowing him up as the fluorescent lights flip on and the music goes silent. The man takes his cup from him and leaves him just standing there with his belt undone and his cock obviously hard in his jeans. 

The man takes a breath that may or may not be shaky before saying, “Have a safe flight,” without looking back at him. Dean just stares at the man’s back, watching as he removes his gloves and tosses them in the garbage by the door. 

Dean does his best to pull himself together, hugging his cowboy boots to his chest like a child with a stuffed animal. He pads softly out of the room in a trance. His eyes fall on the sexy man who is working to button his shirt up to the collar again. Dean takes a wistful breath, his lips forming a giddy smile at the mere sight of the man. 

The man looks over at Dean, eyes locking onto him as he finishes fixing his collar. Dean is frozen. Unable to do a damn thing but stand there and stare at the first man in his life that he was unable to resist. 

The man tears his gaze away from him and takes a breath, notching his head like he’s resetting himself. His tongue darts out between his lips. Dean wonders what they taste like. 

Someone shouts, “Opt out - male assist!” and the man pushes forward. 

A heavy weight lands in Dean’s gut as he stands there in his socks, his belt unbuckled, unable to fucking move. He sees the blonde woman walk in his peripheral vision, but the thought of speaking to her now makes him feel itchy and cold. 

He's definitely going to need more booze on this flight. Enough to forget all about blue eyes and pillowy lips. About messy hair and a rough voice. About strong, capable hands and sexy smiles. 

Except Dean doesn't stop thinking about the man. 

Not on the flight.

Not on the drive to his hotel. 

Not at the hotel bar.

Not as he hooks up with the blonde woman who happens to be staying at the same hotel as him.

Definitely not as he grabs his jeans, getting ready to leave, only to see a small slip of paper fall out of his back pocket. He squints at it in the low lighting. There's a TSA logo in the corner. It's a business card. For a man. Someone named _Mr Castiel Novak_ with the job title _Opt Out Agent._ There's a business number and a cell number given, as well as an email. 

Caught somewhere between drunk, exhausted, and sex-induced relaxation, it takes a moment for the card to sink in. It's not until he flips it over to find words on the back that he pieces it together. Then he's grinning. 

_Call me next time you're in town. There were a few places I'd like to pat down more thoroughly - Castiel_

Dean is on the next flight back. Fuck Lauderdale. He had a pat down to experience. 

Security is _very_ important, after all.


End file.
